


Split Lip

by linguamortua



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brock Rumlow Is Really Nasty, Desperation, Dirty Talk, Guns As Thinly-Veiled Penis Metaphors, M/M, Rough Sex, Slutty Brock Rumlow, Wall Sex, descriptions of violence, hot power top jack rollins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 11:27:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4664850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock's been sitting around at home healing up an injury while Jack gets all the fun on a mission. That's not fair. Luckily for Brock, when Jack gets home he's more than happy to tell Brock all about his adventures - while fucking him into a wall, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Split Lip

Brock hears the front door slam when he’s in the shower, and he immediately rinses off and grabs a towel. He’s scrubbed clean and smooth from a waxing appointment yesterday, just the way he likes, just the way Jack likes. He hurriedly towels his hair and combs it back with his fingers, wiping a circle of the mirror clear to check his appearance. He grabs his tweezers and plucks a stray eyebrow hair, wraps a fresh, dry towel around his hips and leaves the bathroom.

Jack’s loitering at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. It might be a pose - it probably is - but it works on Brock. He’s still in his gear, black pants and a plain black shirt with the discreet STRIKE logo on the sleeve. His boots are muddy and his belt has a long scratch marring the leather, a knife slice, perhaps. He looks tired but elated, in that way he has; Jack loves a fight, thrives on getting his blood up, and he’s never readier to go a couple rounds in bed than after fighting for his life. His hair’s still slicked back, but it’s blood-spattered. In fact, his whole face looks like it’s taken a beating, from a livid bruise coming up around his right eye to a badly split lip. There’s a long gash across his neck, held together with little white butterfly stitches. That’ll scar. Brock would guess that someone had managed to get up behind him with a knife, tried to slit his throat. The cut’s uneven at one side, so the attacker was shorter. Jack probably threw him off with ease. It makes Brock proud, knowing that Jack’s such a fucking demon in a fight that even trained killers don’t want to take him on face to face.

‘Trying to get yourself killed this time, were you?’ Brock asks, regarding Jack with mock disdain. Jack pushes himself off the wall and grins, immediately opening up his lip again. With his bloodied face and battered hands he looks especially good, especially fit and dangerous. Brock wants him. They haven’t seen each other in a week. Jack stalks over and puts his rough hands on Brock’s waist, shoves his face into Brock’s wet hair, his neck.

‘Look at you, fresh out the shower,’ Jack says, his voice gravelly from yelling and gun smoke. He inhales over Brock’s skin greedily. ‘You smell good.’

‘You smell fucking awful,’ retorts Brock. He does; acrid sweat and nitro and the metallic, sickly smell of drying blood. He’d obviously taken the time to go to medical, but he hadn’t showered. Perfect. Brock grabs a double-handful of Jack’s shirt and tugs their bodies together, arching up into him. Jack retaliates by removing Brock’s towel with a sharp yank. He drops it on the floor.

‘Bed?’ Jack says, looking at Brock’s ass over his shoulder, giving it a little slap.

‘Wall?’ Brock counters.

‘Aw, shit,’ says Jack. ‘No rest for the wicked. Here’s me, back from the war, all tired out—’

‘Yeah, sure, whatever,’ says Brock. He tugs at Jack’s belt, undoing it and fumbling for the buttons of his pants. ‘Come on.’

‘I threw a man into a fuckin’ industrial meat processor protecting your ass,’ Jack grouses, ‘and now I gotta fuck you up against a wall.’ He slides his hands down Brock’s ass to the fleshy backs of his thighs, squeezes them, lets his fingertips dip intimately between Brock’s legs.

‘That explains the blood,’ says Brock into Jack’s neck, distracted by the animal smell of him, his thick muscle and the rough slide of his work clothes on Brock’s smooth, bare skin.

‘Nah,’ Jack says. He turns them both, pushes Brock up against the wall. Brock’s mouth falls open and he’s already hard enough that being pressed up against Jack’s leg is on the edge of uncomfortable. _What fucking ever_. He rubs on Jack, a little. ‘Nah,’ says Jack again, hands roaming, ‘most of the blood’s from a headshot.’ He laughs, remembering. ‘Point fucking blank.’

‘Jesus,’ Brock says, his head falling back against the wall. Jack buries his face in Brock’s clavicle and sucks at his skin, nips just to make Brock gasp.

‘Head popped like a melon. Pretty sweet.’

‘Regular sidearm?’ Brock asks, knowing what the answer will be. Jack’s always liked a bigger gun than SHIELD will supply him.

‘Desert Eagle,’ Jack supplies, as expected and oh God, that’s it; Brock moans out loud at the thought of the kick of it, the flashy .50 calibre in Jack’s big hand jumping as he makes a perfect shot. The muscles of his arm cording and flexing with the recoil. Jack chuckles, and the throaty sound spurs Brock into action. He finally gets Jack’s pants open and shoves his boxers down to pull out his cock, half-hard and warm and dark red. He can smell Jack’s heavy musk with his pants open; Jack always gets a little excited in the field, so by the time extraction rolls around his underwear has the distinct tang of sex to it. Jack thrusts into his fingers a couple of times.

There’s lube – where? Somewhere. They’ve got it stashed in a few places. Brock reluctantly wriggles free and leans over to the little box on the wall where they keep the house keys. Score. He throws the bottle to Jack, who flicks it right back to him.

‘Seriously?’ Brock says.

‘Do your own dirty work,’ Jack tells him, pressing him back up against the wall face-first and biting at the back of his neck, just under his hairline.

‘How?’ Brock says, breathlessly. ‘How can I when you’re in my goddamn way?’ Still, he lubes up his fingers and sneaks a hand between them. Jack leans back and Brock knows, with a tiny thrill, that he’s watching Brock slowly push two fingers into himself. It’s an easy slide; Brock isn’t going to talk about how well-practised he is but – aw, hell, they fuck a lot, okay? And yeah, they fuck a lot, but Jack’s not immune to the sight of Brock getting himself ready for it; he’s breathing hard and heavy against the nape of Brock’s neck. Jack takes the lube and then Brock hears the wet, slick sound of him stroking himself.

‘Ready?’ Jack asks, unnecessarily; the answer’s always yes. Brock flattens both his hands against the wall and pushes out his ass, knowing what it looks like. Jack slaps it, hard, and steps in close. There’s a long, warm slide of his hands down Brock’s body, shoulders to flanks, and then Jack spreads him open and lines himself up. The sweet, aching press of his cock makes Brock’s mouth fall open. He braces himself firmly against the wall. Jack’s hands are on his hips, guiding him; Jack’s lips are on his neck, on his ear. ‘Shoulda been there today,’ he says, pushing inside Brock with cruel slowness. ‘We dropped in, took ‘em by surprise.’

‘Mmm,’ says Brock, trying to arch himself back onto Jack’s cock but held against the wall by Jack’s weight. He’s on tiptoes, desperate for Jack to go deeper, but Jack knows how to make him wait.

‘Caught ‘em like rats in a trap,’ Jack continues. He gets an arm around Brock’s throat and pulls his head back. Brock leans back onto Jack’s shoulder.

‘Keep talking.’ Brock mouths at Jack’s jawline, tasting salt.

‘Smoked ‘em out, then picked ‘em off as they ran out the building,’ Jack says, his voice hitching a little as he bottoms out, hitching his hips up at just the right angle to make Brock yelp and writhe. He's sweating again, hot and damp against Brock’s back. His t-shirt is rucked up, so Brock can feel a stripe of his skin; every so often his open belt rubs on Brock’s hip or ass. The belt; Brock could write a fucking sonnet about it. He moans.

Jack repositions him, pulling his ass out further, making him spread and stand on tiptoes so hard it hurts. If Brock moves even a little, he’ll fall on his face; he braces himself, muscles tight and cock crying out to be touched. Jack loves doing this, hanging him backwards off the bed or shoving him up against a wall, fucking in a quinjet bathroom or a burned-out building, making him wait, hold, wait. Brock swears it’s Jack’s way of retaliating for all Brock’s orders in the field.

But Jack was in charge today, temporarily promoted while Brock was off. The thought makes him moan again.

‘Oh, yeah?’ Jack pants, fucking him with firm, deep strokes, his fingers digging in blissfully hard.

‘Just thinking,’ gasps out Brock in between thrusts, ‘guess you were Commander Rollins today – ahh, Jesus, right there.’ Jack had jerked hard when Brock called him Commander, going in deep in a way that makes Brock’s cock twitch and leak.

‘Aw, hell,’ Jack groans into Brock’s back. ‘Call me that again.’ He pauses, his thighs shaking from fatigue and impatience - Brock feels Jack’s body quivering against his. ‘C’mon, ask me for it.’

Brock’s almost delirious with want, hasn’t been fucked in a week and already he’s so close. Jack won’t touch Brock’s dick until he’s come himself. Brock has to earn it. He flattens his palms against the wallpaper and flexes to make the muscles in his back stand out. He licks his lips and glances over his shoulder at Jack. Jack’s lip’s trickled blood down his chin and he looks feral, a guard dog or a road warrior, brawny and savage. Brock’s eyes fall half closed.

‘Permission to fuck myself on your cock, Commander,’ he says, electric with desire, grinning wide and excited and hoping Jack will play along.

‘Permission granted,’ Jack tells him. ‘Hell, rookie, I’ll help you out there.’ He grabs a handful of Brock’s wet hair and tugs him backward. Brock goes willingly, fucking himself, using his arms, doing it hard enough to ache. Jack’s too turned on to wait. He fucks into Brock, meeting him halfway. He knows Brock’s body so well, knows what he wants and needs, and he’s aiming his thrusts just right. Brock cries out; it’s so much, too much, too good and he needs to be touched, craves it, wants Jack to stroke him with a rough, hard hand until he comes over Jack’s calloused fingers. Jack is close, getting erratic in his passion, so Brock needs to be jerked off now, now, before he loses the hot slide of Jack’s cock up inside him.

‘Please,’ Brock pants, his voice cracking. Jack gives a guttural groan and shoves in so deep that Brock’s head cracks against the wall. ‘Please touch me.’

Jack has mercy, adjusting so he can reach down, other hand still in Brock’s hair. He gets Brock’s dick in his fist and jerks him in rhythm. Brock hears himself making little moans and whimpers, and Jack’s muttering at him, _good boy, good rookie, take it, take it for me_ and its all Brock needs. He comes, clenches around Jack’s cock and squirms his way through an orgasm that Jack milks out of him with expert fingers. Amidst the aftershocks, Jack comes too, shooting off inside Brock and rolling his hips a few last times, coming down slowly.

Jack’s hand in his hair might be the only thing keeping Brock upright. He smiles into the wall, blissed-out, then pulls himself up to standing and turns around. Jack’s wiping the sweat off his face and tucking himself back into his pants. He licks his lower lip and his bottom teeth are lined with blood. He grins, lop-sided.

‘Well done, rookie,’ he says. ‘Now go and run me a bath.’

‘Fuck you, lazy bastard,’ Brock says, but Jack’s spunk’s trickling down his legs and he imagines warm water with ocean-scented soap, a good, cold beer and leaning against Jack’s big chest; indolent neck kisses and Jack’s rumbling laughter echoing in the bathroom and getting ready for round two in their bed.

He runs up the stairs two at a time.


End file.
